Writings by Cole Huffman

Dec 19

Thwack Moments: A Meditation on Fathering and Sonning

THWACK is a pleasing sound for the baseball fan. That
percussive clap when Louisville Slugger meets fastball, sending it deep. Then there’s
the THWACK of your child’s head slammed against an object. Not pleasing.

My sons are 10 years apart, presently 17 and 7. I’ll
refer to them by their ages. The older was born from me by lineage, the younger
to me by adoption. Last night we had guests over for dinner. Transitioning to party
games after dessert, I called to my older son to join us. He was in his younger
brother’s room wrestling him, showing affection in the way of boys. 17 came
into the living room with 7 swung over his shoulder—then promptly slammed him
down on a leather couch.

THWACK!

17 suplexed 7 with such force I was sure my younger
son’s head made contact with the frame of the couch underneath the cushion. Turned
out the sound was worse than the injury, but 7 immediately started crying and
holding his head. 17 sat down on the couch with a shucks grin—That couldn’t have hurt that much! My do-you-know-what-a-concussion-is
scolding promptly wiped it off his face.

Because 17 is my firstborn he carries more wounds than
my other children for my learning to be a father on him. I had rigid
expectations when I was new to parenting so at times when he was younger I disciplined
him too hard, blew up at him for childish impulsiveness. Adding to these
violations of Ephesians 6:4, I pushed him away from his bent, which is music,
to my bent which is sports. Like catching a cancer early we rectified that; I
repented and he forgave. But still, such as all that leaves a mark, and when corrective
words steamed at him from my mouth last night, I saw in the look on his face what
I perceived to be a scintilla of lingering distrust that Dad can ever really be
fair to him when upset with him, though I know—and his mom confirms it—I am not
in this who I once was to him. And yet I misperceived his look.

To spare 17 and our guests further awkwardness—and to
get ice for 7—we retreated to the kitchen where I told 17, in what the kids
know as “my emphatic tone” (I’m yelling in my heart), never do that to 7 again. I meant to correct only the forcefulness
of his play and the thoughtlessness of his force, but it likely sounded to him
like I didn’t want him roughhousing his brother anymore. I knew 17 wasn’t trying to harm 7. But did 17 know that I
knew?

Of course the questions under that question are:
Does my son truly trust me? Does he get me? Does he understand my flaws may be
his too someday? Does he appreciate the effort I’ve put into correcting in
myself what’s hurt him in the past? Fatherhood has some places where the
footing is unsure but still we soldier on.

In the kitchen 17 leaned his lanky frame against a
counter and stared at the floor. I took some trash to the recycle bin in the
garage then reappeared to tell him I wasn’t mad at him—yes, he knew—and hug
him, which he received. Still looking at the floor he said he was mad at
himself.

THWACK!

His words instantly registered with me, and deeply. It
was a fatherhood epiphany. It filled me with pride for him, made me want to hug
him again. If my son can get mad at himself for thinking he hurt his brother he
can realize his dad gets mad at himself too for thinking he’s hurt his son. Coming
to that realization—which is its own kind of THWACK moment—evidences the slow
formation of empathy, surely an overlooked component of compassionate manhood. I
cheer this development in my oldest boy livelier than an Irish bar toasts
Guinness brewmasters on St. Patrick’s Day.

My favorite definition of empathy is Joe Aldrich’s,
that it’s the ability to become a naturalized citizen of another’s world.
Fathers and sons can seem to each other at times to inhabit different planets. But
empathy shared makes a father and son—this father and son—less incomprehensible
to each other as we age.

It makes us more like two sinners on equal footing. More
like brothers. Father and son need the very same grace extended to each other. The
son has graduated from childhood when he gets this. The father has matured when
he gives it.